


I ain't speechless, I'm fuckin' VERKLEMPT

by Lasgalendil



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Awesome Howling Commandos, Bucky Barnes-centric, Captain America: The First Avenger, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, POV Outsider, Panic Attacks, Podfic Welcome, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queer History, Stucky - Freeform, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8905924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: After rescuing the 107th,  Steve Rogers has returned to England for some much needed, well-deserved R&R, and is in desperate need of a shower.…After Zola’s experimentation, Bucky Barnes wakes up alone with no memory of where he is, how he got there, or who the hell slept in his bed last night.Hilarity ensues.





	

  
“Hello?” Monty heard Barnes’ voice ring from the guest suite, followed shortly thereafter by the man himself, clad in the silk pyjamas and dressing gown left out for him. His curly hair was rumpled, chin unshaven, and he looked still like death warmed over, but there was a hearty flush to his cheeks that hadn’t been there before, the sort of healthy, well-rested look that came with a solid night (or two)’s sleep on a comfortable bed. Monty was about to call out, tell the man breakfast (supper, he supposed) was soon to be ready, when Barnes caught sight of him and startled.  
  
“Oy gevalt!” Barnes jumped back, catching the door and nearly falling.  
  
“Top of the morning,” Monty offered with a cheeky grin. And then, because he was English (and a right British bastard, as his sister would say), “tea?”  
  
Barnes stumbled up, braced against the doorframe, pale and gaping at Monty as though a bit sick.  
  
_He rather looks_ , Monty thought, _as if he’s seen a ghost_. Which was ridiculous, really. After what HYDRA and the collective US government had put the man through. Monty raised a brow.  
  
“…Limey—?” Barnes asked, sounding queasy.  
  
And oh. _Oh,_ Monty realized, seeing Barnes’ eyes dart fearfully between himself and the still-rumpled bed, in which there had quite assuredly been a second occupant the night before.  
  
Oh, bloody fucking hell, Monty cursed to himself. Rogers was in the bath, and Barnes had only been half-conscious and barely lucid two nights before when they’d pulled him unceremoniously from an American holding cell then drove the night through, listening to a litany of the man’s name, rank, and serial number. They’d made it to Falsworth Estate at the crack of dawn, where Rogers had carried a finally-sleeping Barnes up the stairs, and there he’d remained. As far as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes (late of the 107th Infantry) knew, he’d last been in a solitary holding cell awaiting sentencing from his hasty courts martial—or perhaps, as Rogers had suspected on their sudden sojourn in the dark—still strapped to a table in Austria.  
  
And so Sergeant Barnes was gaping at Monty at a loss for words, quite convinced, it would seem, they’d shared a queer tryst the evening prior. Brilliant tactician and Paratrooper be damned, six years in HIs Majesty’s Service had NOT prepared him for this.  
  
“Rogers!” Monty called, wheeling to pound the door behind him. The door, it must be said, that was near-wrenched from its hinges by a rather naked Rogers himself, clad only in what appeared to be a very inadequate turkish towel wrapped hastily about his waist.  
  
There was a brief look of expectant concern, but it lasted only a split-second. “Buck!” Rogers shouted that ridiculous moniker and launched himself across the hall. “You’re awake!”  
  
Between the sudsy water, tile, constricting towel and over-exuberant nature of the embrace, it went about as well as one could expect: namely, disastrous. Monty hadn’t seen such a mess since Brutus the mastiff puppy had gone gregariously through the Lady Falsworth’s nativity one Christmas Eve. Barnes ended up with a now entirely naked Rogers—the man looked like David, or Heracles, a living nude of a marble statue from the Renaissance or even the Greek masters themselves—sprawled in his lap. The poor door behind Barnes had been plucked completely off its frame, hinges splintered beneath them.  
  
“The fuck—?“ Barnes began.  Stopped. Gaped. “…Stevie—?”  
  
“You jerk,” this “Stevie” said, and only clung about him tighter. “Thought you were dead.”  
  
Barnes, it must be said, eyes wide and mouth working, looked rather like a fish. He stopped and started near a dozen times, one thought catching up and tripping the next.  
  
“—the hell—“

“How did—“

“—what the—“  
  
Rogers only nestled closer. Heaved a soft sigh.  
  
“…fucksakes, Rogers. Put some damn clothes on,”  Barnes managed to string enough words together to make some coherent sense.  
  
That was enough to give Rogers pause, and the man startled as though baffled to find himself suddenly in such a state of undress. He let out a strangled yelp and bolted back into the bathroom, door slamming shut (and plaster falling) behind him.  
  
Barnes blinked. Raised himself up on his elbows. Took it all in. Did a double-take as he registered Monty’s presence for the second time. “You seein’ what I’m seein’?” he asked, dazedly.  
  
“I’m afraid so, chap.”  
  
“The—the—a—I— _Steve?_ ” Barnes pressed, perplexed, still sprawled on the floor. “ _Big Steve?_ ”  
  
_As opposed to what?_ Monty wondered, bemused. “Quite.”  
  
“No, no, _Big_ Steve,” Barnes insisted. “ _Big Steve_. Naked Steve. Like a big fuckin’—“ he paused, bewildered. “— _naked Joe Louis_ _Steve_ Steve?”  
  
“Indeed,” Monty affirmed.  
  
Barnes shook his head. “That’s it,” he muttered under his breath. “Seein’ shit. Gone fuckin’ crazy, Barnes. Jesus, Mary, Joseph and Moses, all the king’s horses ’n all the king’s men." Then Barnes laughed. Eyes crinkling up, nose wrinkling, wide smile bursting in silent mirth as tears streamed down his cheeks.  
  
“I say, man, what could possibly be so funny?” Monty frowned.  
  
But Barnes only hiccoughed, unable to stem the tide of delirium. It washed over him in helpless waves, hilarity and terror in rapid succession. And Monty—having recently experienced the dizzying madness of release himself, knelt carefully. He made no move towards the man. He’d known a gent or two from his father’s generation who’d suffered shell-shock— “battle-fatigue” as they called it these days— and he no more wished to startle Barnes as be injured himself. “I assure you, Sergeant, you’re quite safe here,” he offered.  
  
“That’s what a fuckin’ hallucination would say,” Barnes scoffed, still chortling.  
  
That wrung a laugh out of even Monty’s dry British humour.  
  
“Are you really real,” Barnes asked him, suddenly so fearful and childlike. “Is any of this?”  
  
“Quite real,” Monty said kindly. “I assure you.”  
  
“Fuck,” Barnes swore, those tears growing angry, eyes red, teeth gnashing down against his lips. And that look, while grim, was at least familiar. Barnes had been damned determined to look after his men, and indeed Monty found it—strangely, absurdly, even—comforting, to see the Sergeant Barnes he’d known and respected, rather than the frail, desperate shell of a man he’d become (but that wasn’t quite right, was it? Monty knew. He’d been terrified out of his mind himself, and he was a Soldier, a professional Soldier, and a Lieutenant and a Para at that. Barnes had been a bloody draftee and only a Sergeant, albeit a damned good one.).  
  
“…the hell are we, anyways?” Barnes sat up, rubbed those still streaming eyes on his sleeves.  
  
“London, England.” Monty shrugged. “Falsworth Manor. We really are quite safe—well, aside from the swans,” he shuddered. “Nasty buggers, if you ask me.”  
  
Barnes sniffed. “An’ Stevie?”  
  
“I’m here, Buck,” Rogers said, now dressed, peeking his head out from the bathroom.  
  
Barnes stared the man up and down, still in slack-jawed shock, eyes awash with sudden confusion, lust, hopeful adoration, and pure, baffled rage. “Stevie—?”  
  
“Hey, Buck,” Rogers said, and knelt down on the floor next to him. “Hey.”  
  
Barnes only blushed. Stumbled over himself. “I—hey,” he mumbled.  
  
“Hey yourself, jerk,” Rogers said.  
  
“…when did…how did…” Barnes struggled to explain. Then, quite helplessly, “…what—?”  
  
“You still all verklempt on me, huh? What’s the last thing you remember?” Rogers frowned, taking and turning the man’s face, peering into each of his eyes as though he might actually see a concussion.  
  
“‘Member you bein’ smaller, you dumb punk,” Barnes grunted.  
  
“Yeah, well,” Rogers shrugged, gave a wry grin, gaze dropping to Barnes’ parted lips. “I joined the Army.”  
  
And things may have, well. Things may have progressed quite quickly from there were it not  for his hasty intervention. “Gentlemen?” Monty let out in a clipped tone, and that startled them enough to break from what most certainly would have become a kiss. _I know you’re queer_ , Monty wished to tell them as Rogers let go of Barnes’ hair as though burned, Barnes’ own hands slipping from Roger’s arms, now tucked tightly into his own chest. _I know. You don’t have to hide. Not from me._  
  
Yet there was a part of him, a dark, long buried part of him, that despised them for it. It was none of Monty’s business—no one’s, really—what went on behind closed doors, and so the proper thing would be to keep it that way. Bloody queers. Bloody careless. Not an ounce of propriety or decency between them.  
  
_Oh, shut it, you_ , Monty berated himself. Although truth be told, that nasty voice sounded more like the late Lady Falsworth than any version of his own. And he wondered, then, how many of the thoughts rattling around his head indeed belonged to him. He didn’t hate Barnes—bloody well respected him—the man was perhaps the most peculiar, most human person Monty’d ever met. And Rogers? Rogers was a damned asinine fool. He had the petulant stubbornness and innocence of a child, planting himself and declaring the world wrong, for all the bloody good it would do him. And yet—  
  
And yet. The man _was_ Captain America. Perhaps the earth would move, the sun stand still.  
  
“Can someone please tell me what’s goin’ on?” Barnes asked, pitch rising towards hysteria yet again. “Last thing I know I’m in goddamn Austria and now, I dunno, we’re at the fuckin’ St. George Hotel.”  
  
“Would you prefer the long version, or the shortened?” Monty asked.  
  
“St. George Hotel, huh?” Rogers wondered, standing to study the angles of the ceiling. “Nah. Architecture’s all wrong, Buck,” he mussed Barnes’ rumpled hair with one fist. “Besides, you’d better not be goin’ there without me!”  
  
“An' the short version?” Barnes managed around a wrestled “gerroff me, Rogers, you’re worse’an my ma.”  
  
“England,” Monty shrugged. “Falsworth Manor, to be exact. You’ve had the privilege of staying in the Zulu room. I can get the librarian if you like, he knows the history of the house far better than I.”  
  
_Librarian?_ Rogers mouthed hopefully, just as Barnes said, “…an’ the long?”  
  
“It would appear Captain Rogers went against active orders from the United States Army and single-handedly invaded the country of Austria after learning of your internment in a POW camp,” Monty quipped, because, honestly, no one could make this up. “That is, only after fearing you were dead and going AWOL from his post as a USO performer.”  
  
Rogers paled. Sweat begun to bead at his brow. He coughed. Adjusted his collar nervously. The man, Monty thought for future games of poker, had a tell. Several, in fact.  
  
Barnes blinked. “Steve? Steve. Steve! Tell me he’s joking. Steve? STEVE.”

“Oh would you look at the time you must be starving how long since you last ate let’s go find you some food where were those kitchens again _oh, shit._ “  
  
“What did you do?” Barnes found his feet, chased him clumsily down the hall, unsteady as a newborn fawn. “Steven Grant Rogers what the everliving fuck did YOU DO.”  
  
“What the hell is happening?” one of the scullery maids cried over the chaos and clattering, more to herself—the room, God, the universe, really—than anything. "Who the bloody blazes--?" she stopped short at the sight of him, one soot-stained hand flying to her mouth.  
  
“Oh, no one really,” Monty said, felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. “Just the Captain and his Sergeant.”

**Author's Note:**

> Joe Louis “the Brown Bomber” was the world heavy-weight boxing champion from 1936-1949, retiring undefeated. His 1938 defeat of German contender Max Schmeling was as inspirational among the black community as Jesse Owens’ victories in the 1936 Olympics, as well as within the wider world for the triumph of “democracy” over fascism.
> 
> (It was also the only time in history Steven Grant Rogers and Bucky “three-time welterweight YMCA boxing champion” Barnes would be caught dead in the New York Yankees stadium…a fact post-serum Steve will deny to this day.)
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Louis  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Louis_vs._Max_Schmeling#The_second_fight  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jesse_Owens
> 
> The St. George Hotel was an upscale hotel and queer hang out/hook up in 1930’s and 40’s Brooklyn, located less than 6 blocks from Steve and Bucky’s MCU apartment.


End file.
